So an hour later, as the evening was just tipping over into darkness, I was walking up Egypt Hill, a road that led away from the promenade and skirted the gardens of the Baring house. I had thought of trying to talk my way in, but gave up the idea; journalists can do much – get into courtrooms, police stations, people's houses – by sheer brass neck, but gatecrashing a society party, I thought, might need practice. So, drawing on the wisdom of George Short once more – never be direct if you can be devious – I kept an eye on the wall until I came across a place with a suitable tree that had branches hanging down across the stonework. Half a minute later I was in the garden, adjusting my bow tie, dusting down Gumble's suit and walking, more boldly than I felt, up to the house itself.
Nobody gave me a moment's attention. It worked perfectly; I was given a glass of champagne by a passing waiter, and strolled into the main reception room – already full of people and heady with the smell of perfume – where I leaned against a wall and watched to get my bearings and work out precisely how I should behave. Remember: such an event was as foreign to me as an Esquimaux wedding party; I needed to tread carefully. And I felt ridiculous. Evening dress was not my normal wear; I'd been more comfortable in the fisherman's oilskin. The fact that most of the women were far more ridiculous looking than I could ever dream of being was no consolation. Why they ever consented to such absurdities, how it was considered the height of fashion, eluded me. Had they possessed the stylishness of Elizabeth Ravenscliff, they might have succeeded. But most looked like plump middle-aged Englishwomen in a mask. Not for the first time, I was glad that I lived in the world of pubs and press rooms. Besides, how did society operate? Was it permissible just to go up to someone and start talking? Would I cause a scandal if I engaged some young girl in conversation?
Having achieved my aim of getting into the party, I realised that I hadn't thought too much about what I was meant to do next. I wanted to see Elizabeth, to warn her, to talk to her. But how to find her, even if she was there? All the women were in masks, and although I reckoned I could count on her to be more beautifully turned out than anyone else in the room, it was impossible to tell which one she might be. Some of the masks were tiny and did nothing to disguise the identity of the wearer, but a fair number were very large. All I could do was wander around, hoping she would notice me. If she was there, she didn't. Or maybe she was, but didn't want to acknowledge me. I was rapidly beginning to think this had been a bad idea.
'Glad you could come,' said a hearty voice beside me as I retired to the wall again and tried to be as visible as possible. I had attracted the wrong person. A tall, grey-haired man with a bristling moustache and a red face – mainly from a collar two sizes too small for him, so the fat of his neck hung down over it – was standing beside me, looking vaguely hopeful. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and desperate for any reason not to have to compliment some absurdity in frills.
'Good evening, sir,' I said, then remembered who he was. 'I'm pleased to see you again.'
Tom Baring peered at me, uncertainly, a look of vague panic passing across his face. He knew me; had met me; had forgotten who I was. Such were his thoughts, I knew. Nothing quite like embarrassment for making someone try harder.
'A meeting at Barings last year,' I said vaguely. 'We didn't meet properly.'
'Ah, yes. I remember,' he said, surprisingly convincingly in the circumstances.
'Family duties, you know . . .'
He looked a bit more interested. I had a family that had duties.
'In fact, the only interest in the meeting was the possibility that I might have been able to ask your advice. About a piece of porcelain.' A fairly desperate way of winning his confidence and establishing a connection, but the best I could do. And it seemed to work. He brightened immediately.
'Oh, well. Only too glad. Ask away, please do.'
'It is a dish of some sort. I was given it. It's Chinese.'
'Really?'
'Well, it is meant to be,' I continued with perfectly genuine vagueness. 'I was given it as a present, you see, and I wouldn't trust any old dealer to tell me truthfully what it is. I'd be too easily deceived, I'm afraid. I was wondering if you could tell me of an honest one.'
'No such thing,' he said cheerfully. 'They're all rogues and scoundrels. Now I will certainly tell you the truth. Unless it's really valuable, in which case I'll tell you it's worthless and offer to take it off your hands.' He laughed heartily. 'Tell me about it.'
'About nine inches across. With blue foliage – bamboo and fruits, that sort of thing.'
'Markings? Any stamps?'
'I believe so,' I said, straining to remember.
